


100 Horses

by siddals



Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 08:19:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4953115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siddals/pseuds/siddals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Khutulun shares her plans for her future with Byamba.</p>
            </blockquote>





	100 Horses

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt _"mamihlapinatapei - The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move."_

“You aren’t tired from the journey?” The voice behind him is bright and clear and familiar and he knows it’s her before he turns.

She’s as he remembers, sharp and whip-thin and grinning. He hadn’t expected her to approach him, but perhaps he should have (he doesn’t expect anything from her all, really, despite how long he’s known her, she’s a fixture of his life for her inconsistency more than anything else).

Most of Karakorum is asleep. The royal party rode for the past two weeks to reach the old capitol, and most of them have now retired to their gers, exhausted from riding and from drink. He alone remains awake. He likes the old capitol, the openness of the steppe, the feel of the air. Cambulac is his home and has always been, but there are times he tires of it.

“Not yet,” he says, “I had the impulse to walk.”

“A fine impulse,” she says, her eyebrow raised, “I think the city is best at night. Don’t you?”

He’s almost surprised by the simplicity of the conversation. Much of the time, Khutulun is all games and snares, trying to make him look a fool or blurt out some secret he wouldn’t otherwise tell her. When they were young, she’d dared him over and over, prompting ever-more outlandish feats until he’d lost patience with her.

“I do,” he says, dully, unsure what to say. The torches of the city make her face flare up in light, and then darken again. He forces himself to look at the ground.

“What news is there of you, Byamba?” she asks, “It has been nearly a year since we saw each other last. Surely it has not been devoid of accomplishments. Whenever I see you, I learn of some new grand feat. Though rarely from your own tongue.”

He chuckles.

“Nothing so grand. I have served my father, that is all.”

“Very well then,” she says, “I will hear of the battles you have won from your generals at the next feast. They will tell me you took many nations by your own hands and you will look at the ground and tell me you have done nothing grand.”

He laughs.

“You may be disappointed.”

“Hardly.”

“And you, Khutulun?” he asks, “What news with you?”

“Had you not heard, Byamba?” she asks, her lip curving upward, “I have chosen a husband.”

She smiles the same as ever, her lips twitching, as if she’s merely telling another joke. Something clenches within his stomach, but he forces it away.

“I had not. Who is he?”

“Ah, but that’s the trouble,” she says, with a little laugh, “he has not made himself known to me.”

He frowns.

“You speak in riddles.”

“I am to marry the man that can best me in wrestling. Those who fail must surrender one hundred horses to my father.”

Byamba smiles despite himself. It’s so very like her, to make such a choice into a game, a challenge. Khutulun outpaces all those around her, even generals, even khans. All of it is a game to her, and she always wins.

“You will be sure to find a most worthy match. Few could succeed at such a thing.”

“Indeed,” she says, “I have already bested four.”

She looks at him, her eyes bright and sharp and curious. She is more alive than anyone he’s ever known, Byamba thinks, and is promptly embarrassed by the thought. It’s too sentimental to express, it sound like a soldier’s rough attempt at poetry. She’d laugh at it, he’s sure.

“You will best many more, I am certain.”


End file.
